I am the one that holds the knife
to your throat.
Because you are afraid.
I feel it,
in the coiled snake when you swallow,
pulse hammers against your thin veil,
the stream that keeps you alive.
Your almost translucent barrier that separates
you alive, from death.
I am the one that frees you,
spills red that holds you tighter, knows you
better than I ever can.
Watch as you squirt through the cracks
in my fingers. Escape into the bleached
sink below the mirror.
Where it’s just me.
Covered in you. And I have never felt
more apart from you.
I hate you for that.
When cars are used as weapons,
do you see your naked reflection in the rear view
mirror, or are you astonished—
deflecting off the fender.
Are you the people on the sidewalk,
standing with signs or bricks?
Their hands divide like houses—
listen to what they shout,
but read their eyes and their lips.
They whisper something different.
You are the white sheets
that hang over windows and eyes.
So you can pretend to be blind.
You are the screams of a child
lost in the crowd on a street that has become
a civil war.
You are the noose—
tight around your neck with fingers
clutching useless at your
side. A sign that mutters something.
It doesn’t matter anymore.
When you stop—
will you ever—
are you on your knees? Begging?
Or are you on your feet.